


yeehaw buckaroo

by tempestaurora



Series: wayward sons [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Livin that cowboy life, Peter says Fuck, saddle up buckaroo, we get super country in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 08:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16929960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestaurora/pseuds/tempestaurora
Summary: Peter froze, he felt the squish under his shoe. "What did I just step in?”“That would be cow shit.”“Cow shit.”“Yup. You gotta keep an eye out for those. They’re everywhere.”Peter let out a long, hateful sigh. “I can’t believe you live like this.”Harley snorted. “It’s just cow shit.”“Just cow shit? Harley. It’s cow shit on my shoe. On my shoe, Harley! You know when I got cow shit on my shoe in New York? Huh? Never, Harley. I never stood in cow shit in New York.”





	yeehaw buckaroo

**Author's Note:**

> here's the disclaimer: i'm not from tennessee or the south of america or anything like that. all country things i have learned from watching woody in toy story and the hannah montana movie where she goes to nashville and pulls off her wig in a concert and rides a horse with a cute boy called travis who is never referenced again after the movie
> 
> also, with thanks to ciaconnaa, andromath and paperkatla for their contributions to this mess. i feel like i'm gonna offend at least one tennessee-ian, so, be warned for that.
> 
> i was reminded that harley comes from tennessee and peter is a city boy through and through. peter was not made for fields.

Peter jumped over the back of the sofa, landing heavily beside Harley.

“Guess what.”

Harley didn’t look up from his phone. “What?”

“Three-day weekend.”

“I heard,” Harley replied. “Why are you so excited about it?”

“Why am I so- Harley! Three days of no school! Imagine all the things we could do!” Peter grinned widely at Harley rolling his eyes, finally dragging his gaze away from his phone. Yesterday he’d ended a two-day Twitter battle with a guy who wanted the Avengers Initiative to be outlawed entirely, and he was still reaping the benefits of his win. He retweeted someone’s comment on the subject and locked his phone.

“I’m not gonna be in the city.”

“What?”

“I’m not gonna be in the city.”

Peter narrowed his eyes, feeling his plans for the weekend going down the drain. They could’ve made a pillow fort. They could’ve hung out in the lab. They could’ve run around the Stark Tower and been a nuisance. “Well, where are you going to be?”

“Rose Hill.”

“Rose Hill, _Tennessee?_ ”

“Yeah. That Rose Hill.”

Peter huffed and flopped back against the sofa. “That’s nine hundred miles away.”

“Don’t I know it. But I haven’t seen my sister in like three months, so-”

“No, no, I get it,” Peter said, waving a hand. “She was your sibling first. I’m just second fiddle compared to her.”

Harley snorted and poked Peter in the side. “Stop being so melodramatic. You should come with.”

Peter raised his eyebrows and Harley nodded.

“Sure. You’ve never seen it and Abbie’s been dying to meet you-”

“No, she-”

“She obsessively stalks your Instagram,” Harley interrupted. “She has asked me if you’re single three times. Trust me,” he landed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, “girl’s got a crush.”

Peter pulled a face. “She’s eleven.”

“So, you’re going to humour her and be nice and not break her heart,” Harley agreed.

“Hey, hey, I haven’t even said I’m coming on this trip yet. And I’m not a heartbreaker-”

“The public would say differently.”

“ _You’re_ the one that said I broke up with Spiderman. _You_ made me a heartbreaker.”

Harley snorted. “You were complaining about people talking to you about it. I solved the problem.”

Peter shook his head but he didn’t dispute the point. “Is there decent wi-fi out in Rose-Hill-back-water-bum-fuck-nowhere?”

“So-so.”

Peter sighed right down to his core. “Sign me up. Oh, you know what we could do while we’re there?”

“What?”

“We could find your Dad – if you wanna, I mean. We don’t have to, but I bet he’s still in the state at least. And like, if he’s a dick I can just punch him, ‘cause I mean, I’m good at that-”

“Uh, it’s fine, Peter. I don’t need to find him.”

Peter frowned. “You sure?”

Harley nodded. “Yeah. I’m mean, it’s been a decade. I don’t want to find him.” He smiled, dropping the matter. “But Rose Hill trip? You’ll come?”

“Sure,” Peter said, trying to push the bad feeling away that came with mentioning Harley’s dad. “You can show me that Mustang you keep bragging about.” Despite this, Peter closed his eyes, resigning himself to the sheer volume of fields he was about to stare at for three days – but he should’ve kept them open, because then he would’ve seen the glint in Harley’s eyes as he formulated his plan.

Peter should’ve at least been prepared.

 

*

 

They took Mr Stark’s private plane, because they didn’t want to spend half the three-day weekend travelling. Mr Stark and May had seen them off, May pressing a kiss into both the boys’ hair and Mr Stark making them promise not to break his multi-million dollar plane.

“I’m a phone call away,” he’d said about six times. Mr Stark had seen enough of Tennessee the last time he’d rolled through the town like a wrecking ball, and the boys were old enough to fly alone.

When they climbed off the plane on the tarmac in Tennessee, Peter took a long look at the flying death trap. “You know,” he said, mild, “my parents died in a plane crash.”

Harley blinked at him. “Seriously? Dude-”

Peter shrugged and clapped his hands. “Alright, Tennessee.” He turned on one foot, pointing at the different things he could see. “Field, field, field. Ah yes, lots of fields. Wonderful. Has this state ever heard of buildings?”

Harley snorted, punched Peter in the arm and started off towards the car that Mr Stark had promised would be waiting for them.

The drive wasn’t too long, and Peter kept himself busy by counting the amount of three-storey plus buildings they passed along the way. Harley groaned a lot at Peter’s antics, but Peter could tell that it was at least distracting him from the way his leg was jittering with nerves.

“How long’s it been since you’ve been here?” Peter asked. “Fourteen.”

“About three months,” Harley replied. “I saw them during the summer, but, remember? I spent most of the break in New York-”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember.”

“It’s so weird being back here.”

“You know what’s weird,” Peter said, waving his phone. “I have no signal. Fifteen? No, I’m not counting that. Fourteen.”

Harley shook his head. “Not weird. There’s entire dead zones out here. I can’t wait to show you around – we’ll visit the swimming hole, oh, and the water tower that Tony destroyed, and the fishing hole-”

“Mr Stark destroyed a water tower? Wait- wait, you have a swimming hole _and_ a fishing hole?”

“Well, yeah, don’t wanna fish in a hole where kids have been swimmin’,” Harley said with a shrug. “Oh! We have a house, but maybe we should visit the trailer park, too. Mom’s sister lives out there with the cousins and they go midnight shootin’ all the time.”

Peter absolutely picked up on Harley’s Southern accent coming through all of a sudden. It was like, the closer to home he got, the more he became Southern Harley. Was this True Harley? Was the Harley Peter knew just the New York version?

“You’re gonna go all buck-howdy on me, aren’t you?”

Harley barked out a laugh. “ _Buck-howdy?_ What does that even mean?”

Peter shrugged. “Do you own a cowboy hat?”

“Not since I was twelve, but I’m sure I can get one. Hey! Hey, driver, slow down a sec! Could you park for a minute? I wanna show Peter something.” The hired driver pulled to the side of the road and Harley gestured for Peter to follow him out of the car. The other side of the road gave Peter junkyard vibes. Scrap metal laid about and it seemed pretty deserted for noon on a Friday.

“What is it?”

“That’s where the water tower used to be,” Harley said with a firm nod. “But there was this dude – I told you ‘bout him, right? – Eric Savin, he had Extremis. He melted one of the legs to it and pulled it down to murder Tony.”

“Did it work?”

Harley blinked at him. “You mean, did Tony die? _No,_ dumbass. But then, Tony was trapped under some metal and that’s when Savin caught _me_. I totally saved the day. It was dope.”

“They never rebuilt the tower, though?”

Harley shrugged. “Think they built a new one somewhere else, probably. I dunno. Anyway. Stop one of the tour, check. Back in the car, Parker.”

 

*

 

Stop two was Harley’s house.

They had only just clambered out of the car when there was a high-pitched “Harley!” and a small body came running down the front drive, slamming into Harley’s side. Peter smiled as Harley laughed, hugging his little sister, then let her climb onto his back for a ride.

Peter picked up Harley’s bag as well as his own, the weight meaning nothing much to him, and followed his friend up towards the house.

It was a small thing; a bungalow that had seen better days, dead flowers in the front garden and a garage around the side that Tony Stark had apparently seen fit to break into. The inside of the house had never left the late nineties; the kitchen tiles a tired, gaudy yellow, the floor a brown-tile pattern linoleum. Peter was pretty sure the ceiling was made with asbestos, and the kitchen table had more dents and scratches it in that usable flat surface.

In short, it felt a lot like Harley and a lot like home.

If Ben and May had ever been able to get a house, Peter imagined it would’ve looked a lot like this.

“Mom?” Harley called. “Mama?”

A woman emerged from one of the doorways, a wide smile on her face. “Oh, sweetpea. Come here. Abbie, get off your brother’s back, I can’t hug him.”

The girl, Abbie, slipped down as her mother pulled Harley into a hug. Peter could see the resemblance between the three in an instant. They all had the same dusty hair, same pale blue eyes.

Abbie span to Peter, her eyes suddenly wide. She stuck out a hand and Peter lowered one of the bags to shake it.

“I’m Abbie,” she introduced.

“Peter.”

“I know.”

He blinked, nodded, and picked up the bag again.

She stepped closer to him and whispered, “I read online that you dated Spiderman, is that true?”

“Uh-”

“Ab, stop harassing Peter,” Harley said, pulling away from his mom. “Get your gossip from the internet like everyone else.”

Peter had a quick introduction to Harley’s mom – _call me Melissa,_ yes, of course, Ms Keener _–_ and then they were dumping their bags in Harley’s room, that Peter had to pause and look around because he was _nosy, okay._

Dark blue walls, a baseball bat in the corner, a ten-gallon cowboy hat on the back of his door – “you’re such a liar, Keener” – and photos lining his shelves.

“Is this you?” Peter asked, pointing at a kid who looked no more than seven. He was missing his front two teeth as he grinned widely beside a girl in a bright pink _High School Musical_ shirt.

“Stop snooping, Parker,” Harley said, rummaging around in his closet. “Mom’s gonna do dinner for us, tonight, but before then I wanna show you ‘round town.”

“Does this involve the _swimming hole_ , because I’m not doing that,” Peter said, turning and pointing a finger.

Harley, head still in the closet, replied, “Nah, that’s tomorrow. And fishin’, too. Oh – noodlin’ if we get the time.”

“What the hell is _noodling_?”

Harley waved a vague hand. “I’ll tell you about it if we do it.”

“That’s ominous.”

“That’s Tennessee. Alright.” He emerged from his closet with a hat, placing it on his head. It was a dirt brown in colour and either advertised some sort of seed company or a car shop, Peter didn’t get close enough to find out. He also didn’t comment on the hat, though by the look on Harley’s face, he was expected to.

Peter followed Harley out of his room and back into the kitchen, where Abbie was at the kitchen table, going through her homework. From what Peter could tell, either Abbie had a three-day weekend too, or she was just not in school that day. He didn’t ask.

“We’re going out,” Harley said. “I wanna show Peter ‘round Rose Hill before it gets dark.”

His mom nodded. “You’re telling me all about school when you get back though, right? I still get those report cards.”

Harley sniffed. “And you’ll find, I’m acing my classes. If I tried harder, I’d probably beat out Parker, too.”

Factually, Harley beat Peter out in three classes: wood shop, engineering and, inexplicably, Geography. (“What can I say? River formations really get me going.”)

Once they were out the door, Harley led the two of them towards the centre of town. Rose Hill was tiny, really; just a smattering of buildings in the town centre and then a few residential roads surrounding. After that, it was just fields until the next miniature town over.

And because it was so tiny, everyone knew everyone – or, at least, everyone knew _Harley._ And not in the way people knew them in New York; like they’d seen them on a newspaper somewhere, or online; like they knew they were _supposed_ to know them, or they knew who they were and wanted photos – no, in Rose Hill, the people who knew Harley had known him since he was born. They clapped him on the back as he passed, they yelled out greetings over the road, called out things like _tell your Ma I’ll get her the cauliflower by tomorrow_ or _did you hear Crazy Dan by the gas station died?_

Peter had never known first hand of the everyone-knows-everyone kind of neighbourhood. In Queens, Peter was lucky if he could remember his neighbour’s name. Here, Harley knew everyone they passed, and they all knew him.

Eventually, they stopped at an intersection. Down each street there seemed to be the main stores of the town. “This is it,” Harley said, opening his arms wide. “You’ve seen all of Rose Hill now.”

Peter snorted. “Nice town you’ve got here.”

“Thanks, I wanna show you where that guy died.”

Peter opened his mouth to ask _what the fuck_ , but Harley was already off, walking down one of the roads and into a section at the end. This space was empty and felt cold; two brick walls that came together at an intersection, and a slab of new tarmac over the old. There were a few dead flowers, but no one had come to pay their respects for a long time. On the walls were five human shadows.

“Tony and I sat right here,” he said after a moment, staring at the shadows. “I then accidentally made him have a panic attack about space.” Harley shrugged.

“What’s with the shadows?”

“Guy with Extremis got too hot and blew up. The shadows are the five people he took with him. When’s a bomb not a bomb?”

“When it’s a person.” Tony had said that once, when giving a long-story-short to Peter about the Mandarin. He let out a long breath and Harley nodded.

“Ay, Keener!”

Harley turned, and Peter followed a moment later. Three guys trudged down the street, only a little older than them. Peter shuddered at the one on the right, wearing only camo. He really was in the South.

“Heard you were back in town.”

“Dick,” Harley replied. Peter raised his eyebrows.

“Who’s this? Your boyfriend?”

The guy on the left snorted. “I thought he was dating _Spiderman._ ”

The camo guy shook his head. “Nah – nah, isn’t that the kid Spiderman dumped Keener for?”

The other two squinted towards Peter before agreeing.

“Well, this was not fun at all,” Harley said, chipper. “We’re going now.”

“Come on, Keener. Aren’t you gonna show us some fancy science you’ve been learning with Stark?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Harley grabbed Peter’s arm.

“You two are cute together,” one of them jeered – Peter didn’t catch who. They had a very _budget Flash Thompson_ vibe about them; all the cruelty, none of the apparent intelligence. Mean for the sake of mean. They wanted to see Harley squirm.

(Peter knew Harley did not squirm. Harley either extracted himself from situations he didn’t want to be in, or he stepped up to the plate and threw a punch. Peter didn’t want to see Harley get in a fight half an hour after arriving in town.)

“I get it, they want somewhere private so they can do their homo shit together-”

“There’s an alley behind the laundromat!” one of them called.

They kept throwing out insults and jeers as Harley and Peter walked back up the road, away from the five-year-old crime scene. The minute they were around the corner and out of sight, Harley tugged Peter along into a run.

They ran a few blocks before stopping, Harley’s face something stormy.

Peter frowned. “They’re dicks,” he said. “Forget about them.”

“Dick Gordon,” Harley spat. “The best thing about leaving this place was not having to see him anymore.”

Peter slung an arm around Harley’s shoulder and started them off towards a field he could see. He might as well get started on his field-dwelling if he’d be here for three days. “I could punch him.”

“ _I_ could punch him.”

“Sure, you could, but I’m stronger and none of them will ever see me again.”

Harley snorted. “We _are_ cute together.”

“Oh my God, Keener,” Peter said, shoving him away. Harley laughed. “Stop doing that! We’re adorable but we’re just not gonna happen!” Harley cackled louder, and Peter picked up the pace to the field, climbing the fence and sitting on top.

“That’s Old Man Marlon’s field,” Harley said, climbing the fence with him. He swung a leg over and adjusted that stupid trucker hat.

“I can’t believe we’re in a place where people are actually called _Old Man_.”

Harley snorted. “You’ve never left New York before, huh?”

Peter shrugged and counted on his fingers. “Germany. DC. Uh – New Jersey? That counts, right?”

“I used to work on this farm on the weekends.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he’d pay me twenty bucks a day. Come on, I want apples.”

“What?” Harley had already jumped into the field, and Peter rushed to keep up. “Isn’t this trespassing?”

“Sure, but we’re gonna be trespassing times two in a minute, so this is mild.”

“ _Mild._ ”

“Don’t worry, Old Man Marlon likes me. It’s Miss Samson that doesn’t – but she won’t see us anyway. We’re gonna be stealthy.”

“This is stupid.”

“No, this is country.”

Peter laughed, loud, and then stopped when he saw the first cow. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“A cow.”

“You’re acting like you’ve never seen a cow before.”

Peter stared at it. It was huge. Like, double his size _at least_. It was all brown – not black and white like he’d seen on TV. They were at a distance, but it smelt _really bad._

“You’ve never seen a cow before.”

“Oh yeah, like people just bring cows into downtown Manhatt- what did I just step in?”

Peter froze, he felt the squish under his shoe. He hated fields. Hated them. Fields shouldn’t exist; everything should be city blocks. A thousand and one buildings, grass outlawed.

“That would be cow shit.”

“Cow shit.”

Harley nodded, shoving his thumbs through his belt loops. He looked so country. Peter hated it.

“Yup. You gotta keep an eye out for those. They’re everywhere.”

Peter let out a long, hateful sigh. “I can’t believe you live like this.”

Harley snorted. “It’s just cow shit.”

“ _Just cow shit?_ Harley. It’s cow shit _on my shoe._ On my shoe, Harley! You know when I got cow shit on my shoe in New York? Huh? Never, Harley. I never stood in cow shit in New York.”

The apples they stole weren’t even worth it.

 

*

 

At Harley’s house, the first thing he said when he got in the door was, “Jacobs gonna bring ‘round the cauliflower tomorrow,” to which his mother replied, “About time, he was supposed to bring that round three days ago.”

Country life made no sense to Peter.

They ate dinner at the kitchen table, washed up together and talked a lot about Midtown and Mr Stark and the ridiculous things they did together. Ms Keener was very interested in the Spiderman rumours and how Harley was coping with being in the public eye, but Harley waved that all away with his hand and insisted that Pepper Potts had their backs, if anything went wrong. She pulled a face but she trusted it.

Later, they watched TV in the living room (threadbare sofa, threadbare cushions, threadbare blanket) until Abbie went to bed. Then Ms Keener kissed the top of Harley’s head and announced that she was heading off to the bar to work her shift, _keep an eye on Abbie, don’t answer the door-_

“Beware of strangers, yeah, got it, Mom,” Harley finished.

“Bye boys. Be good,” she said before she was out the door.

“Bet Miss Nancy next door’s happy to get a few days off babysitting,” Harley said, low, turning the TV volume down at the same time.

Peter didn’t say much. They watched television. “I like your house,” he commented eventually. Harley smiled at him.

“Yeah, me too.”

 

*

 

The boys slept in Harley’s bed. It wasn’t as big as his one at the tower, but the two had slept in all sorts of places and positions, so a slightly smaller bed meant nothing to them.

“Don’t spoon me,” Harley instructed.

Peter snorted. “You’re acting like you’re the little spoon out of the two of us.”

The lamp was on and they were both propped up in bed, tapping at their phones with only one bar of signal and the shittiest wi-fi Peter had ever encountered between them.

 

**_PETER:_ ** _Night May love u!_

**_MAY:_ ** _Goodnight sweetie. I love you too!_

Peter slipped his phone onto the bedside table and studied the photo sitting there. Beside him, Harley sat, oblivious, staring at his screen. The photo was clearly taken when Harley was little; he was standing between a younger Ms Keener and a man with dark hair and darker eyes. The baby Harley wore a denim jacket and a ten-gallon hat. Ms Keener wore the same barmaid apron she’d left in a few hours before.

“Hey, Harley?” Harley hummed. “Who’s that in the photo with you?” He knew the answer; he didn’t know why he asked the question.

Harley looked over to the bedside table. “Mama and Dad,” he said. “Give it.” Peter passed it over and studied Harley as he looked at it, pointing it into the light. “Mom’s pregnant in this with Abbie.”

“So you were, what, five?”

Harley nodded. “Somethin’ like that.” He handed it back over. “Don’t know why I still have that thing. Haven’t seen the fucker since I was six.”

Peter placed it back in its original position with care, making it line up along the dust lines of the bedside table. “Why’d he leave?”

Harley passed his phone over too, to be placed on charge. He spoke while Peter was turned away. “Not sure. He never said. Just went out to buy scratchers, you know? But – I got theories.”

“Like what?” Peter settled back against the headboard.

“He left a month after Abbie was born.”

“Ah.”

“I’d bet she’s not his – or, maybe, he _thought_ she wasn’t his.” Harley shrugged. “Doesn’t matter though, because I am and he still fucked right off. Mama picked up more shifts and a third job after that. Barely saw her at all for the next ten years – she was always in and out and sleeping whenever she could. Miss Nancy next door did the heavy lifting with raising us.”

Peter studied Harley for a moment; the furrow in his brow, the way he stared defiantly at his feet, like they’d give him all the answers. Peter nudged his shoulder into Harley’s.

“She got to quit her third job when I left for New York,” he said. “Not to be sincere or anything, but it fucking sucks that the best thing for this family is me not being around.”

Peter opened his mouth to say something then immediately closed it again.

Harley shook his head. “It’s alright. Whatever. _Man,_ did I just get weird and honest?” He shook his hands out. “Not a fan of that, not doing that again. Let’s get some shuteye, Parker, we’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Swimming hole?”

“Oh, you betcha.”

 

*

 

“Nope,” Peter announced. “Nope, not doing that. Nope. Couldn’t pay me enough.”

Harley laughed, splashing at the water. “Come on, Parker! Get your ass in here!”

“Swear jar,” Abbie called from where she paddled around the swimming hole. It was a small lake. A big pond. A _hole._

Harley had made Peter bring his swimming shorts just in case it would be warm enough for this, so Peter was stood on the short dock, shirtless, with his arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head. Abbie was staring at him openly and it made him feel particularly uncomfortable.

“That’s a cess pit,” Peter said.

“ _No_ , it’s a swimming hole. Come on!”

“You know, in New York, we have this thing called swimming _pools._ They’re cleaned daily and-”

“In the hole!” Harley chanted. “In the hole! In the hole!”

“No! No-”

“In the hole!” Abbie yelled. “In the hole!”

Peter shook his head. “It’s standing water with algae, Harley, do you _want_ to die from a brain-eating amoeba?”

Harley cackled and swam over. “If you don’t come in by yourself, I’m gonna make you.”

“You think you could make me?”

“Is that a challenge?”

Peter raised his arms to the side, tilting his head at Harley. He was goddamn Spiderman, _yes,_ it was a challenge.

Without preamble, Harley hauled himself up onto the dock, and Peter sprinted back to dry land. Peter laughed when Harley slipped in the grass, but a moment later, Harley was leaping onto Peter’s back and Peter caught him, complaining under the weight.

“Into the hole, Parker, or we’re noodling next.”

“You won’t tell me what that means!”

“Get in the water!”

Peter took a look at the water. Standing water with algae. A dark shade of blue that looked a little green. Abbie, laughing as she watched them. He glanced back at Harley; his hair plastered to his face, a wide grin across his face. _Fuck._ He was going in the hole.

Peter aligned himself with the dock, Harley still on his back, and ran full pelt, leaping off the end and into the water.

 

*

 

That afternoon, they went noodling.

“Fuck you, Keener,” Peter spat, sitting by the lake. The fishing part was bad enough. Abbie had gone to a friend’s house, Ms Keener was at work, and Harley had unloaded the fishing gear into Peter’s hands and made him carry it down to the lake, where a group of middle aged men yelled _Keener!_ and _Harley!_ upon their arrival.

They – Jacob with the cauliflower, Old Man Marlon himself and Crazy Dan’s brother, Josh – set the boys up and tried to explain the basics of fishing to Peter. What he understood, after ten minutes, was that it was _boring._ Incredibly, stupidly, _boring._

Then came noodling and the _Fuck you, Keener,_ as Old Man Marlon explained what it was.

“Well we’ll move down the bank a li’l, head on in to the wa’er – an’ well noodlin’s when ya stick yer han’ righ’ on in and catch a ca’fish like tha’.”

“With your bare hand.”

“Yessir.”

He looked to Harley. “Fuck you, Keener.”

Harley broke out into cackling laughter as Old Man Marlon shook his head in disdain.

“Youngins gotta watch tha’ there potty mouth-”

“Let the boys swear,” Josh said, waving a hand. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he added, to Peter.

“I’m not doing that. I went swimming in your _hole._ I have _fished._ I ate _grits_ in a diner this morning – I’m drawing the line at noodling.”

Harley was still laughing. He’d flopped onto his back, the fishing pole lax in his hands.

“I’ll give you a choice,” he said when he’d worn himself out. Peter glared down at him. “Either go noodling now, or we’re going to a country bar tonight and you’re line dancing.”

Here are three facts about Peter: Peter could not dance. Peter did not _like_ dancing. Peter, decidedly, hated country music.

“Deal,” he said. “I hate you so much.”

Harley, amused, replied, “No, you don’t.”

 

*

 

They were underage, but no one cared. In fact, five people greeted Harley upon entering and the bartender greeted him like an old friend when he served them their sodas.

“Does _everyone_ here know you?”

Harley nodded. “Just about,” he said. “There’s only a few hundred people in the town, you meet everyone eventually.” They propped themselves up on stools at the end of the bar, country music playing overhead. When they went back to Harley’s for dinner, he’d picked up the cowboy hat on the way out, sticking his trucker hat in his back pocket. Peter desperately wanted to get away from him.

But, here, Harley was normal. No one looked at him funny for wearing the hat – most people in here had something like it. Peter couldn’t figure it out; how this entire world existed just outside the world he knew. People who wore cowboy hats for fashion reasons, not because they’re red and sparkly and eight years old. People who said _darntootin_ unironically – because he’d heard it at least three times since stepping foot in this town. People who genuinely grabbed their belt buckles when they talked.

People who had _personalised belt buckles._

It was like he’d been sucked into an alternate dimension and he couldn’t get over it.

Peter downed his soda.

A live band set up on stage.

Harley’s face was alight with glee.

“Come on _buckaroo,_ ” Harley said, jumping down from his stool and sliding his empty glass onto the bar. “You gotta line dance.” Peter pulled a face. “If you don’t dance, we’ll swing back by the lake before we leave and go noodling.”

Peter pulled a different face. Someone nearby turned, a bright smile on her face. “You boys going noodlin’ tomorrow? We got some spare gear!”

Harley sent Peter a look, and something in Peter’s face must’ve made him incredibly smug. “Nah, ma’am, but thank you,” Harley said with a smile. “We went today, actually-”

“Oh, with Jacob? He said he had two boys watch ‘im grab a fish! ‘Parently it was huge!”

Harley nodded and Peter was fucking amazed – Harley Keener was a force to be reckoned with. He was a volatile human being, able to go from disinterest to threatening with the flick of a switch. He played by his own rules (and Pepper’s) and frequently climbed into Peter’s multi-million-dollar superhero suit just for kicks. And here he was, smiling politely at a stranger.

“Oh, it was,” Harley agreed. “But he’s leaving out the part of the story where Marlon caught bigger.”

Then they were moving into the crowd, people all around them filing into lines as the band introduced themselves and the song. When they asked if there were any beginners tonight, Harley raised Peter’s hand for him, and the frontman sent him a wink and a promise to go slow.

Peter hated everything about it.

All in all, line dancing was about ten times worse than expected but four times easier. The movements were the same every time. It was a pattern, over and over and over, and after doing it three times, Peter could follow it with reasonable accuracy. At one point, Harley disappeared from his side, and then returned, winking at him and plonking his cowboy hat on Peter’s head, pulling the trucker one out of his back pocket.

Peter hated that, too.

(“Yee haw,” he drawled.)

So, they line danced to country music about a truck and a cold beer and some denim jeans. Peter thought there was a line about hay and maybe a girl or a scarecrow – he wasn’t sure. Oh, then more beer and pickups again.

And then, _finally_ , Harley tugged him away from the dance floor, laughing and ordering two more sodas at the bar. Harley pulled over someone who was an acquaintance or a friend or an acquaintance of a friend to take a photo of the two of them, and then Peter was begging to go home.

“In a minute,” Harley said, grinning. “You know, that hat kinda suits you.”

“Take it back.”

Harley snorted. Peter downed the rest of his drink and turned back to his friend, whose eyes were caught across the room, his smile faded from his face entirely. Peter frowned and glanced over his shoulder, trying to find what was catching Harley’s attention.

It took a moment, but there, on the other side of the dance floor, was a familiar man of dark hair and darker eyes. The opposite to Harley and his mother and his sister. He stood there with a woman, and while she was oblivious to their presence across the room, he was not.

“We should go,” Peter said suddenly, looking back to Harley.

Harley was still staring at his father. “You know, when the whole _Iron Sons_ thing happened, he called me?” Peter didn’t reply. “I don’t know how he got my number – probably from someone here – he called me and he acted like he was sorry and wanted a relationship, and then at the end of the conversation, he brought up Tony and Tony’s money and how he was late on rent-”

“Harley.”

“And I thought it didn’t matter because I’d never see him again anyway. Because he wouldn’t come back to Rose Hill after everyone here knew about him leaving, and I wouldn’t go anywhere he would be anyway.”

Peter looked back across the room. The woman was still there, drinking her beer, but the man was gone.

“Let’s go,” Peter said.

Harley didn’t say a word this time, so Peter grabbed his wrist and pulled him in the direction of the door, only-

“Harley.”

Peter pulled faster.

“Kid, Harley. I wanna talk with you. Gimme a minute.”

They kept moving, out in the cold night air outside. There were a few people smoking. The music became muffled as the door swung shut behind them. Then open again – Harley’s father moved outside, Peter dragged his best friend in the direction he thought his house was.

“Come on,” the man said. “Please. I’m askin’ here – gimme one minute. Can’t I get a minute?”

Harley yanked his hand away from Peter’s, whirling on his father. “Can I get the last ten years back?” There was a beat of silence. “Didn’t think so.” He turned again, nodding to Peter to keep walking, as his father called to him, his voice getting further and further away, never following.

Peter couldn’t say how, but they ended up at the spot where the man had been the bomb, five years previous. Harley stared at the shadows on the wall, the space lit yellow by the street lights.

“Do you wanna go home?” Peter asked, quiet. He thought about New York; about Ned and MJ, about Pepper and Mr Stark, about May, waiting up for them. About Midtown and the tower and the nights when Harley would stay over on the bunk bed in Peter’s tiny apartment. About the city, its loud noises and constant traffic; the neon glow, the skyline.

“I am home,” Harley sighed. And Peter wondered if everything in New York kept him awake at night. If the neon glow hurt his eyes and the loud noises stopped him from falling asleep. If the high-tech STEM school was such a far reach from his one here in Tennessee, if his accent was something he had to smother to get by. He thought about Ned and MJ and their New Yorker attitudes. About Pepper and Mr Stark, rich and living above the millions in the city. About May, the only thing resembling Rose Hill, Tennessee Peter could pinpoint; because only May and their shitty shoebox apartment looked anything like the bungalow Harley grew up in.

Harley only ever gave hugs in moments of distress. They were always quick, sincere and then over, as if they never happened. Peter’s hugs were different; he lingered, he liked giving the comfort and receiving it, liked knowing there was a beating heart beneath his hand, pressed against someone’s back.

He pulled Harley in for his kind of hug, and they stood there under the yellow glow, on the new tarmac against the old, surrounded by the five shadows, until Peter felt Harley’s heartbeat slow all the way back down.

 

*

 

In the morning, they sat in the Mustang and stared out the front windscreen at the rest of the garage. It was cluttered mess of tools and inventions; broken things, never fixed, and radios with brightly coloured moving parts. There was a shelf of potato guns, and Peter could look at them and tell which ones were more powerful than the rest, which ones were cast to the side, forgotten.

Harley placed his hand against the driving wheel. They were both bad drivers, so much so that Mr Stark disliked going out with them and trying to teach them; he wouldn’t trust either boys behind the wheel of the Mustang, and certainly not behind the wheel of any of his nicer cars.

Harley blew out a long breath and said nothing.

Peter drummed his hands on the dash. “I like Rose Hill.”

Harley scoffed. “No, you don’t.”

Peter smiled. “Okay, I don’t. I like cities. I can’t be Spiderman in the suburbs, and I can’t be Spiderman when there’s more field than buildings.”

“I like cities, too,” Harley said. “But I like small towns. I like Rose Hill.”

“It’s your home.”

Harley nodded, once, and glanced over. “So’s New York, though. Hey, do you wanna see my all-camouflage outfit?”

“I don’t want anything less than I want that.”

Harley snorted. “Cool, wanna go stand in a field?”

They stood in a field. Peter complained about the lack of wi-fi and Harley introduced him to a horse called Sweatpea. Her mane was braided with bright pink ribbons. Peter was _so over_ Tennessee.

 

*

 

They got wi-fi on the plane, and Peter almost cried with relief as his signal bars went back up. Before they’d even landed, they’d both posted a series of photos.

On Peter’s, there were photos of the two boys and Abbie, soaking wet from their time in the swimming hole, grinning at the camera; a short video of the man who delivered cauliflower to the Keeners wrestling with a catfish; a cow at a distance and a photo of the kitchen table at dinner, Harley, Abbie and Ms Keener crowded around it, a space open for Peter, the three of them laughing.

 

**_@peterparkour:_ ** _i stepped in cow shit get me back to the city_

On Harley’s, there was a selfie of him and his sister, climbing over his back; a photo of Peter, standing in the middle of a field and looking particularly unhappy about it; a video taken of the boys in the middle of the dance floor, line dancing with the best of them, and then a photo, Harley in his trucker hat, grinning, and Peter in Harley’s old ten-gallon cowboy hat, smiling widely despite the country music playing overhead.

 

**_@harleyk:_ ** _headed back to new york and i’m missing tennessee already. thanks for coming with me, parker._

**Author's Note:**

> bonus: peter returns to new york and incinerates the shoes he wore in rose hill.  
> tony: why are you doing that?  
> peter: i stepped in so much cow shit my shoes will never stop smelling of it. in unrelated news, i need thirty bucks for some news shoes.
> 
>  
> 
> thank u for reading! i literally don't care if i referenced things incorrectly and if cowboy hats aren't called that. don't correct me in the comments. i want to live in my mistakes and not care. otherwise, talk to me! tell me things! thank u for reading!


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